I’m a pilgrim today, traveling far to the east to the mysterious land of Wis-con-sin, where I shall spend some time in adoration of the son.

My middle child, the cute and monkey-like Connlann, is graduating from the University of Wisconsin Madison tomorrow, with a degree in English. Hooray for the hard work and success of our boy! Hooray for rituals of completion! Hooray for the end of chunky great tuition payments!

So, anyway, I shall be spending most of my time today driving, and most of tomorrow driving, and a good spell of tomorrow sitting in uncomfortable seats watching a ceremonial parade of strangers, but it is all worth it.

(Thanks to Lisa M for sending me the charming Happy Monkey illustration.)

Perhaps you have been pondering the meaning of the new traditional greeting, Happy Monkey! (important usage note: it is not Merry Monkey, nor is it Happy Monkey Day. It is simply “Happy Monkey”, full stop. Trying to change the phrase means you are waging war on the Monkey, and you know how they will respond.) I haven’t. I’ve been bogged down in the end-of-semester grind for the last week, writing tests, giving tests, grading tests, and there has been little room in my brain for deep philosophical thought.

But then, just a few minutes ago, I reached an end. The exams and papers were all marked and graded, and I filled out the forms and submitted them to the registrar. And I had an epiphany. Happy Monkey is not a day, not a greeting card, not just a phrase. Happy Monkey doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Happy Monkey…perhaps…means a little bit more. And what happened then…? Well, my small Monkey grew three sizes that day!

Happy Monkey is any moment that you feel the burdens lifted, that you feel a lightening of the mood, that you feel puckish and prankish and like kicking your heels. Happy Monkey can strike any time, any day!

So Happy Monkey, everyone! And may you have many Happy Monkeys in days to come!

A quick note of thanks to the UCF chapter of the Campus Freethought Alliance for the pleasant time in Florida (especially pleasant now that I’ve come home to the prospect of several inches of snow today). We did get a nice photo of our last supper together: pizza and beer, of course.

I’m about to fly away, and I got word last night that the Dean of the Chapel at Rollins is suddenly getting quite irate about my visit. Finally, someone is reacting to me as if I were the antichrist! Maybe we’ll get some controversy Saturday night, although more likely they’ll discover I’m this terribly mild-mannered academic teddy bear and it will all blow over.

There are days I wish I were 6’6″ with tattoos and leather and a voice that was all iron and fury…but it’s just not my thing.

I have sinned. While I was in Philadelphia, I was supposed to attend the Drinking Skeptically event on Thursday evening, and I was honestly looking forward to it…but I went to dinner with Michael Weisberg, Janet Browne, Rasmus Winther, John Beatty, Jane Maienschein, and a few others, and when I finally looked up from the conversation, it was 10:30. Too late. I offer abject apologies to Salvatore Patrone and everyone who showed up.

To get even, the Science Pundit has tagged me with a meme. I am, of course, obligated now to actually address it, as long as I’m groveling. Here are the rules:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

Hang on, my entire life is random, a chaotic maelstrom with a thin thread of intent tangled in it. How am I supposed to pluck out just six fragments from it? Oh, well, here’s something:

1. The oldest object on my person is my social security card. I still have the very same rectangle of paper I was issued when I was 14 and got my first job. It must be made of gopherwood pulp to have held up so long.

2. I used to be wickedly accurate with a slingshot in my misspent youth. I haven’t used one since I was a teenager, though, so don’t send me out to slay any giants.

3. I have never smoked a cigarette or any other combustible tube, nor have I ever been tempted to do so in the slightest. My parents were smokers, so I was never curious, I didn’t see anything faddishly rebellious about it, either, and the habit always simply seemed revolting.

4. I have three small scars on my head and forehead, because when I was a toddler I had multiple independent falls and bloody collisions with coffeetables. My parents and grandparents apparently purged their houses of all such furniture until I reached an age where I was reliably able to stand up without falling down — when I was about 20, I think.

5. The biggest fish I ever caught was a 29 pound Coho Salmon. This was on the same trip where my father caught a 45 pound King. Oh, but we are fallen from the Ancient Days.

6. The quietest place I have ever been was an old growth forest in the North Cascades, when the wind was completely calm and the cedars went still and nothing anywhere was moving — it was eerie. Visit that same forest when there’s even a hint of wind, of course, and the trees are all moaning and whispering to you without cease.

Now I have to tag 6? I took a semi-rational approach, and plucked out the names of the six most recent commenters to leave a url here: Scrambled Stoic,
Big Dumb Chimp,
Susannah,
Mike Haubrich,
Matt Heath, and
Tim Fuller, you’re it.

I’ve got a rather laid-back schedule here in Philadelphia, and I took advantage of it this morning — I took a little walkabout around the neighborhood. Unless you’re from Los Angeles, cities are great places for walking, and it was very pleasant to idle along.

Then, of course, I was required to get lunch at a truck. And, of course, I had a cheesesteak. Wow. They only make these greasy confections right in this particular city, I’ve found: onions and peppers and chopped beef all fried together and slathered onto a slightly chewy roll, with a little cheez-whiz and ketchup (not mustard, Sidaway — you’ll catch me putting mustard on a cheesesteak on the day you put ambergris on your spotted dick). It is to die for, and you can’t have too many or you will die.

The rest of my afternoon is going to be spent tweaking my talk, then off to have tea with graduate students and Janet Browne — you are allowed to be jealous — then to Browne’s talk and Drinking Skeptically. It’s going to get a bit busier the rest of the day.

Fellow travelers, we all know this feeling of stepping off a plane into a strange city and following the signs to baggage/transportation, trying to get our bearings and find our way through these sometimes labyrinthine airports to just get out of these unattractive hubs — the whole thing with air travel nowadays is that you have to do it, and while you’re doing it, all you want to do is escape from it. I know that feeling well lately.

Well, I have arrived in Philadelphia, and it was different. I lived here from 1993-2000, and I stepped off the plane and knew exactly where I was and what I had to do: I strolled unerringly to the train terminal, got on board and paid my fare (which had gone up $2 since I was last here), and rolled off to my destination. It was great. I’ve missed the familiar litany of stations called out by the porter as you travel through the city, and the ease of just taking one of those big bench seats and relaxing while traveling.

I got off at the 30th Street Station, had to go say hello to the big guy with the wings (Old train stations are built like temples, have you ever noticed? Vast spaces with ceilings lofted far above you, and with fabulous winged art deco icons to get you in the right mood), and then knew exactly what I had to do to get to my hotel — take the Market-Frankford line to University City. It was so liberating to stand in that cathedral of transport and realize that I could easily go anywhere. I could have gone down those stairs and taken a train to Trenton and New York, no sweat, and it would have been a pleasant, stress-free rockin’ ride. Anywhere. I was tempted.

Compare the great Eastern urban transit options to our train station in Morris, Minnesota—a sad and shabby relic, abandoned. We’ve got the wide horizons, but there’s a pinched feeling as well, that there is no way out. Cars have closed us off more than they’ve opened us up, I think. Those horizons become a void rather than a destination. They turn us inward rather than making us cosmopolitan.

Small town America is a fine place to live, but man, I want to see more connectedness than the isolation we’ve got now. Places like Europe and the East coast always seem to have more openness — and in large part it’s due to the fact that you can go anywhere.

Everyone wants to know what I’m doing in Philly this week. Me, too! Here’s everything I know so far.

• I’m flying in on Wednesday morning, 19 November. At 5pm, I’m giving a talk on science blogging at the Kelly Writers house on the U Penn campus.

• Thursday, 20 November, is the big event: Janet Browne will be lecturing at 6pm. I’ll be there in the audience, enjoying myself. You should be there, too. You’ve all read her magnificent two-volume biography of Darwin, right?

• Sometime after that, the evening of the 20th, I’m going to aim to attend Drinking Skeptically, at Tattooed Mom’s, 530 South Street.

• On Friday, the 21st, I’ll be presenting at a symposium between 11 and 5. I don’t think this is open to the public, but I could be wrong — I’ll let you know. I’ll be talking about abuses of embryology by creationists and by some legitimate scientists.

There are many other items on my personal agenda. I might be doing something with the Secular Society of Temple University, if I can wedge it in. I’m certainly going to sneak away to a museum or two sometime: The Academy of Natural Sciences has always been a favorite spot of mine, and they’ve got a cast of Tiktaalik on display now. The Mütter Museum is also showing an exhibit on evolution and medicine. I’ll post something once I get there if my schedule firms up.

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We have more details on the Friday symposium, which is open to the public.

Hooray! I win the prize for longest title!

It has come to this. I can’t get to my files on my laptop, my usual posting habits are disrupted, and site traffic is way down. I have to resort to a desperate ploy to regain your eyeballs. I know, it’s shameless, but this kind of thing sells, so until I can get my gadgets fully restored, I’m going to have to use my collection of nude action photos to keep your interest.

(Say…if I coupled this to donations for a new laptop, I could get rich, although the constant demands that I please stop might hurt my ego.)

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I’m in the pleasant town of Kearney, Nebraska to give a couple of talks at the University of Nebraska at Kearney, and something tragic and horrible has happened.

My laptop has died. The video card, she no longer generates the video. It makes it rather difficult to illustrate my talks with projected images. It also makes it difficult to get on the web and engage in the blogging (I’m using a hotel business office computer to post this).

I’m planning to stop at an Apple Store at the Mall of America when I get back to Minneapolis tomorrow and beg them to FIX IT RIGHT NOW, but until then, I’m crippled, with half my brain no longer functioning. It does make my talks more entertaining, though: I’m just talking. I’ve managed to fool them all so far, but today’s talk is all about embryonic development, and I’m going to have to show the evidence through interpretive dance, epic poetry, and finger puppetry, I think. It might be amusing, anyway.